About the work

The world runs on the friction of its own making. There is always a residue, always a stain that comes with turning one thing into another. Even when the turning is over, even when the work is finally done, the marks remain. It’s not just the memory of heat or the ghost of sound, but the actual weight of the machine that did the remembering. The way a shadow holds its shape even when the sun has moved, or how the smell of damp earth lingers after the rain has stopped. Some things are simply too heavy to be erased by a new coat of paint, no matter how bright, no matter how hopeful. There is a kind of permanence in utility, a stubborn insistence on having once been necessary.